


The Party Before Christmas

by elle_stone



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Party, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elle_stone/pseuds/elle_stone
Summary: "What are you doing here?" Bellamy asks, finally, in a voice so sharp and accusatory that Clarke takes a stunned half-step back."I'm spending Christmas with my family," she answers. Her voice is stiff and defensive, her eyes narrow. "The better question is what areyoudoing here?"Regretting my life choicesseems like a poor answer. "Mr. Griffin invited me," he says, instead.Bellamy's boss invites him to Christmas dinner. Bellamy's boss's daughter turns out to be a more than familiar face.





	The Party Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "Bellamy works for Jake and meets Clarke and the company Christmas party and they start sleeping together (maybe just that maybe they’re dating too) and when Jake finds out Bellamy is gonna be alone for (insert holiday) he invites him to come over and then awkward," requested by anonymous.

Not knowing where else to stand, Bellamy stakes out a place by the refreshments, where he occupies himself by spearing tiny cubes of cheese with a toothpick. So it has come to this. Staying late at the office, collecting unnaturally shaped cheese on a paper plate. And for what? To prove he knows how to be social? Or festive? That he's not just the new guy? That he can be fun?

He wonders how many people here are really having fun. Most look cheerful and happy enough, gathered together in pairs or threes or small groups and chatting. The headquarters of Alpha Group, a small nonprofit specializing in education advocacy, has been decked out for the season: strings of lights around the windows, with their tenth-floor view of the city skyline, little snowmen and Santas and fake fir trees on people's desks, garlands of holly wound around the three-quarter-height cubicle walls. Many of his co-workers are wearing holiday sweaters and one has put on a reindeer-antler headband, which occasionally lights up and blinks in red and green. 

Bellamy does not dislike his colleagues, not even the one in the invasively festive headband. If the holiday party were only for the dozen employees of Alpha Group, he would probably be fairly at ease. But everyone has been encouraged to invite spouses, partners, even children to the event, and suddenly the number of people in the room has more than doubled, and the percentage of them that he knows has gone down by more than half. He hasn't felt like this much of an outsider since his first day, and even then, he was immediately handed a large stack of papers and a multi-page to-do list, so he hardly had time to wallow in awkwardness or uncertainty. This is much worse. Now he's the Grinch over by the food, avoiding eye contact, decidedly un-merry, trying not to think about how much he isn't looking forward to Christmas, or about how he's so alone in the city, he couldn't even scrounge up a good friend to invite to this thing.

He moves on with reluctance from the cheese to the fruit plate, where he carefully detaches a branch of green grapes, trying hard not to touch their fellows on the rest of the bunch. He's just about managed it, when a voice from his left asks, "Sticking to the appetizers, huh?" and he almost knocks his whole plate to the floor.

He looks up. The woman standing next to him is about his age, mid-twenties at the oldest; she's wearing her long, blonde hair loose, but pulled back from the sides, and she’s wearing a short black dress with gray tights. The tights have snowflakes on them. She's paired them with thick-soled black boots. No jewelry, except for a thin silver necklace, and a too-large man’s watch on her wrist. Bellamy has never seen her before in his life.

“What?” he asks. The woman points to his plate, which is still balanced precariously on the edge of the table. He picks it up quickly. “Oh, yeah. I guess I’m not very hungry.” Past the fruit plate are a collection of half-sandwiches, a salad, and a large plate of possibly homemade cookies, but (except for the cookies) it all looks fairly unappetizing. “I think I’ll just stick to my cheese and grapes. You?”

“Even less hungry. I’m Clarke, by the way,” she adds, holding out her hand.

“Bellamy.”

Her handshake is firm and steady, well-practiced, though it lingers longer than it should. If he feels something like a spark pass between them in that moment, it is not precisely from her touch but from the slight, tempting smile on her face, her pleased and confident expression as she presses her palm against his.

He takes the opportunity to look for a ring. Nothing—but that doesn't mean she isn't here with someone. He's about to ask, when Clarke drops his hand and says, "Have you worked here long?" and the conversation pivots away.

"Oh—no." He shrugs. Feeling like he’s blocking access to the fruit plate, he starts to walk aimlessly toward the end of the table. Clarke falls into step beside him. "Just about six months. I finished up my Master's in May and then moved down here."

"Still getting used to it, or pretty much settled?"

"Pretty much settled," he lies, but smiles as he says it, so she'll know that this is only a polite quarter-truth. "At the office, anyway."

"D.C. takes some getting used to," she answers. Her tone and the knowing nod of her head are more sympathetic than he'd expected. She steals a cookie off the corner of the plate as they pass, and tears it in two before she bites in. "I've been here almost four months. Well—I've been _back_ for four months. I grew up here, moved to the West Coast for college, spent a few years out there, moved back..." She lets the sing-song cadence of her words trail off and shrugs, like she's expecting him to say that her life story is boring, and she's trying to beat him to the punch. 

"What brought you back?" he asks, instead, and pops a square of cheese into his mouth. 

"Medical school," Clarke answers. She's trying to sound casual, but he sees the half-smile there at the corner of her mouth, and the way she's squared her shoulders, how she’s standing up just a bit straighter and taller with pride. He knows that look. He knows that _feeling_ : neck-deep in the consequences of a decision haltingly made, and surviving, and so glad to survive. It was how he felt after he went back to school, after telling himself forever that he wouldn’t.

"And how's that going for you?” he asks.

The question comes out sounding like a challenge but, except for a quick dart of her gaze, suspicious and narrow, to meet his gaze, she does not seem to take offense. "Hard as hell," she says. "But I've heard the first semester is the worst."

"It is," Bellamy answers, with a confidence that catches them both by surprise. Clarke tilts her head, curious. "I mean—I'm not a doctor. But the beginning of anything is always the hardest. New school, new job, new city." 

They've reached the end of the office by now and are standing just outside the only work space with its own door, closed for the evening, a real evergreen wreath hanging just above the nameplate. _Jake Griffin_ , it says, and nothing else. _Founder and President_ is simply understood.

With nowhere else to go, no way ahead to distract them, they end up turned toward each other, uncertain where to look. _New relationship_ , Bellamy thinks to himself, as he hands Clarke his napkin, so she can wipe the cookies crumbs from her hands. She thanks him and adds, "I know what you mean. No idea what you're doing, but—you just have to move forward."

He's wishing he had let his fingers brush against her fingers, wishing that he could shake her hand again. She shifts her weight between her feet. She looks beautiful even against the backdrop of the dull eggshell walls.

Next to Mr. Griffin's office is a large, horizontal painting, depicting a city skyline in the background, a park and small lake in the fore. The painting is much larger than any other bit of art or decoration in the office, which is generally minimalist in a cash-strapped-organization sort of way, and largely impersonal, outside of the family pictures that some of the others have put up on their desks. For this reason, the painting was the first thing Bellamy noticed when he walked in on his first day, back in June, and the first thing he's noticed every day since: as stunning as it is out of place, it's posed a long-standing mystery to him. But no one else seems to find it unusual, and he's never found a decent opportunity to ask why it’s there.

He finds himself looking at it again now, despite himself, eyes flitting from one familiar detail to the next: the few changing leaves on the early fall trees, the hidden day-moon in the top left. Clarke follows his gaze, observing him as he does not observe her, although he wants to. "What do you think?" she asks. 

Bellamy almost jumps.

"Of the painting?"

"Yeah." She grins. "What else?"

He's about to say that it's nice, which is true, but also utterly insipid, and somehow he feels like Clarke is expecting a more satisfying answer than that. She's looking at him carefully, an expectant air in the tilt of her head, the position of her hands.

"Honestly?" he says, instead.

"Completely honestly."

He glances at the painting again, then admits, "I think it's way too nice."

"Too nice?" She raises her eyebrows, and he imagines that it was only with effort that she did not raise her voice too. "What does that mean?"

"It means—" He exhales, sharp, and tries to explain. "We're a tiny little non-profit. We're cheap about _everything_ . We have to be. But then there's this big piece of expensive art hanging right here in the middle of the office. It's... It’s not the sort of image you’d think we’d be projecting. It doesn’t look quite _right_ , if you know what I mean."

"Why do you think it's expensive?"

The answer seems so obvious that he hesitates to give it. Slightly defensive, wary of stepping into a trap, he gestures vaguely toward it and asks, "Doesn't it look expensive to you?"

Clarke purses her lips, crosses her arms tight across her chest. She's holding the napkin he gave her balled up in one fist. Her expression makes her look superior and slightly stuck-up, but he doesn't hate it. He'd rather like to kiss it right off her face.

"I think you're confusing the size of the painting with its value," she says. "The artist isn't famous, so the work is worth nothing. And even if it were expensive, I happen to know it was a gift."

Her argument strikes him as perfectly idiotic— _the artist isn't famous so the work is worth nothing_ , as if a piece of art's only value was the price tag some rich snob was willing to put on it—but still at first he's stuck for a response. She's tilting her chin up at him, poised and waiting; in her holiday dress with her hair flowing down over her shoulders, she still looks like a boxer, bouncing on the balls of her feet in the corner of the ring. He’s annoyed and distracted, and aware that they’re fighting over nothing, all at once.

"That's not the point—" he tries, but:

"Oh? You're saying Jake Griffin is misappropriating funds and it's somehow beside the point to tell you that the painting was free?"

"Hey— _hey_ —I didn't say that." The color is rising to his cheeks now, and he feels a first flare of real emotion, defensive and hot in his chest. Mr. Griffin is the closest he’s ever had to a mentor, someone who took a chance on him when he needed it, and who is this woman to say that he'd ever offer insult to him in return? "I didn't accuse him of anything. I was just talking about how it _looks_ ."

"Yeah, it looks like fraud."

"No—the painting is nice." He throws up one hand, frustrated at himself for his own simple, inadequate words. "It's beautiful. It's too beautiful for this grungy little office. That's all I was saying." He swallows hard, looks away from her at last, to a spot of dull beige wall over her shoulder. "It was a compliment. That's all."

Clarke doesn't answer for a long time, and he forces himself not to glance at her face. Is she still resentful? Still defensive? Or softening, backing down, forgiving?

"Pretty roundabout way to give a compliment," she says, at last. Her tone so neutral that it wavers with the effort. He hears the slight fault lines in it and smiles.

"Mr. Griffin is the most ethical person I know. He would never—"

"I know." She sighs, slowly loosens her grip on the balled-up napkin and, seeming surprised to find it still in her hand, tosses it in a graceful arc to the trash bin in the corner. “I know. So—” She flicks her gaze up, meets his and it’s steady, and he knows what she’ll say a split-second before he hears the words—“What are you doing after this?”

*

"Your place?" Clarke asks, as they walk out toward the parking lot. She's paying more attention to her bag than where they're going, rooting around in it for her keys.

"Only—step down. Sidewalk's ending." He reaches for her elbow on instinct as they step off onto the asphalt. He lets go after, the thought of holding her hand instead flashing briefly through his mind. "Only if you want to spend the night in conversation with my roommate. What about yours?"

"Same problem. My roommate hasn’t gone home for the holidays yet." She stops up short at a dark blue sedan and turns, her car keys in one hand, her shoulders hunched up toward her ears. The night air is cold and sharp. He hesitates. She opens her mouth, then closes it again.

He considers just kissing her, right there, thinks about it in detail instead of speaking. He pictures crowding her up against the windows of her car, his hands at her waist, and maybe she would press her cold palm against his cheek, and maybe her lips would be cold, and maybe they would warm each other, each hint of contact sharp and thrilling beneath the dark December sky.

Instead, he says, "A hotel could work?" and that's where they end up going.

Their first kiss, instead, is in a cheap rented room, the shades drawn, the lights off. It takes him three tries to get the key card to open the door; once they're inside at last, she drops her bag with an unceremonious thump, grabs him by the front of his jacket, and kisses him with a fierce purpose he does not, at first, know how to match. The door is barely closed and a sliver of light shines in around the edge. He can feel her, soft and solid, all curves, pressed against him, her tongue against his tongue, nose squashed against his nose, and he cannot quite breathe. His fingers twist up in the thick fabric of her coat.

He pulls away at last and she follows him—a second kiss, shorter than the first—then his lips against her ear, his breath ragged. "Hey," he whispers. "I want to see you."

She doesn't answer, but he thinks she's nodding. She reaches past him and closes the door the rest of the way, locks it, and flips on the light.

The hotel room is boring and impersonal: thick peach-colored curtains blocking the windows, a dull painting of flowers over the bed. The bedspread is blue and does not feel like home. It's hard to forget that he's nearly a stranger to her.

Easier, though, when he slides down the zipper on her dress and she presses wide open-mouthed kisses against the curve of his neck. Easier when he's laying her down against the pillows and she's urging him down between her legs. Easier when she's on top of him, and his hands are skimming over her hips and her thighs, and he's hypnotized by the rhythm of her body and the smooth expanse of her skin and the sweep of her hair, messy and wild, as she loses herself in their movement, as she tilts her head, slowly, all the way back.

Later, sprawled in a mess of sheets, his nose pressed up against her shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his back, they are disturbed by the improper rumbling of their stomachs, the memory of earlier, inadequate dinners. Clarke volunteers to solve the problem by raiding the vending machines down the hall. She slides out of bed and grabs her dress off the floor, her wallet out of her bag; he lies on his back with his head rolled to the side, watching her go. He enjoys the light step of her bare feet on the carpet, the flash of leg just as she closes the door.

She returns a few minutes later with two bags of potato chips and a package of M&Ms, which she throws carelessly onto the bed. The M&Ms hit Bellamy in the chest, a near miss from his face. He pushes them away and then leans up on one elbow, his head resting against his fist, and watches as she strips off her dress again: one neat, simple movement, as if she were at home and alone. It turns him on more than a strip tease or a show ever could. Then she climbs up on the bed again and sits down, cross-legged, on top of the blankets next to him.

"They only had sour cream and onion," she says, ripping one of the bags open with an efficient little pop. "Well—and plain. But plain are so boring."

"Plain are boring," Bellamy agrees and pulls himself up toward the headboard. His stomach is pained with hunger and the chips taste too salty, too thin, too terrible for him. He can't imagine anything else he'd rather eat.

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room are the hard crunch of the chips, the intermittent rustling of the small vending-machine bags. Bellamy takes the opportunity to consider the moment, the situation he has found himself in: naked on a hotel room bed, with a beautiful woman, who is trying to open a bag of candy with slippery salt-covered fingers.

“Need some help?” he asks.

She makes a face, then—“No need,” as the bag rips open, and she barely manages to save its contents from spilling. She sets it down carefully in the space between them. Bellamy tries not to let his eyes wander, or at least, not too much.

"You know," he says, "this isn't how I was expecting this night to go," and Clarke laughs, a short bark of sound.

"I bet." She pulls out another chip, but bites down on it slowly, as if lost in some sudden thought. Her gaze seems distant and unfocused. "I wasn't even going to go to that party," she admits. "I mean, an office party with a bunch of people I don't know... I only went because my dad convinced me."

Bellamy feels his muscles seize up, briefly but surely, at the word _dad_ , and for a second his brain is stalled, scrambled with too many competing thoughts.

"Your dad," he repeats. It's not quite a question. He's thinking, first, _at least she's not someone's life partner, or something_ , which has been a tiny, nagging thought there in the back of his mind since he first checked her hand for a ring. But his second is, _but I work with her_ **_father_ ** , and this is not precisely comforting.

He tells himself _not_ to make a mental list of every appropriately-aged man in the office, or at least not _now_ . Not when he isn’t wearing pants. Not when the mystery man’s daughter is naked and close enough to touch.

"Yeah," Clarke is saying. She does not sound at all bothered, nor does she seem to have noticed Bellamy's brief internal crisis. She’s off on her own train of thought. "We used to be really close, when I was growing up, but then we drifted apart while we were living on opposite coasts. And I feel bad that I haven't made more time for him since I've been back."

"You _have_ been in med school," Bellamy reminds her. "I'm sure he understands. Plus, you’re an adult. Not exactly his little girl anymore."

That last part, even he can admit, he really added as a reminder to himself.

Clarke nods, but she seems unconvinced. She balls up the empty bag of chips and throws it in the direction of the trash, then licks her fingers clean. "Yeah. Anyway, he was distracted at the party, which I definitely should have predicted, so..." She trails off, then shrugs again. 

 _So you ended up with me?_ Bellamy wonders. _Some sort of revenge?_

No. He doesn’t believe that, really. Clarke doesn’t strike him as either petty or immature, and in this moment, if anything, she seems a little sad.

He’s about to change the subject—he figures they both need it—when she picks up the bag of M&Ms and offers him one. He smiles. She looks surprisingly soft in the dull motel light, and he feels an unusual fondness well up, a burst of gentle affection he does not expect. 

He thinks about how it's a shame, that they’ll probably never see each other again.

*

Bellamy works late on the last Friday before Christmas, keeping his head down and his focus high, so stubbornly on the ball that he does not even notice his coworkers saying goodbye, packing up, and going home. Finally, only he and Jake Griffin are left. When he hears a knock on his cubicle wall, he jumps. Nearly two hours past December sunset, it's barely dinner time but feels like the middle of the night, a strange time that could be no time or any time; he has to look at his watch before he understands why they're alone.

"Ah, sorry, Sir.” He glances around, double-checking for stragglers. “I, uh, I can lock up if you're on your way out.”

" _I_ can lock up, because we should both be on our way out," Jake answers, with an easy, forgiving smile. "It's almost the holidays, Bellamy. I appreciate the effort, but give yourself a break."

Bellamy glances down at the paperwork he's just about completed, too embarrassed to know what to say. The truth is that he's not trying to complete anything ambitious, to get ahead, or to show off. He's working to get the bare minimum finished. He's been slow and distracted all week, too tired from long nights with Clarke to work at his usual pace. They've either seen each other or spoken on the phone together every night this week, and they seem entirely incapable of having a short conversation, or of just meeting for dinner and then parting ways. Even worse, he thinks about her all the time. He feels like a combination lovesick schoolboy and addict.

"Oh—well—thank you. I just wanted to get this done," he says, half-lifting the paper for Jake to see.

"It looks almost done to me. Believe me, Bellamy, nothing bad will happen if you leave it. You're ahead on just about every project you have going, and no one is at their most productive right before a holiday."

When Bellamy just stares at him, the sheen of exhaustion around his mind keeping him from quite grasping the words, Jake gestures for him to stand up and adds, in a strong, definitive tone, "As your boss, I give you permission to go home," and something of the core message finally seeps in.

Bellamy manages a small, tired smile of his own. "Got it, Sir," he says, setting his pen down and pushing the papers aside.

"You know you don't have to call me that," Jake reminds him, as Bellamy shuts down his computer, stands up and reaches for his coat.

"Sorry. It's just a habit."

They fall into step with each other as they walk toward the elevator, the darkened office behind them, the December cold awaiting them outside. Bellamy's not sure what to do or to say; he's friendly with his boss, but fully aware of their respective places in the hierarchy. Other employees sometimes treat Jake like he’s their buddy, but Bellamy’s never understood the impulse. Their conversations over the past six months have revolved almost exclusively around work.

He’s caught off-guard, then, when Jake asks him about his holiday plans. The elevator doors have just started to slide shut. The question feels, perhaps coincidentally, like a trap, and at first he can do nothing but open and close his mouth, awkward and uncertain, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets as he looks for his gloves.

"I... don't really have any," he admits.

Not having holiday plans doesn't bother him, or at least, that has been his steadfast message to himself, ever since the radio first started playing Christmas songs and the wreaths began appearing on his neighbors' apartment doors. Having to explain himself is worse. Dealing with other people's reactions—like the sad, sorry look on Jake's face—that's worse. It's just another day, he wants to tell him. But he knows he'll only come off defensive and sour, and this is his boss he's talking to, and he only wishes they could both shrug off his pathetic life, forget about it, endure a short stretch of painful silence, even, as long as it _is_ silence, until the elevator doors part at last and they can go their separate ways.

"No family, or anything?" Jake asks, instead, and Bellamy's hands clench into pained, tense fists in his pockets.

"Well—my sister," he answers, keeping his voice as level as he can. "But she's in Europe at the moment, and she's not coming back until March." Or so she says. He'll be surprised if she sets foot on American soil again before the summer, earliest. "And it's just not feasible for me to travel to see her right now. But I mean, it's fine."

Jake is still staring at him with the sad, lost expression of a little boy. Bellamy wracks his brain for some way to comfort him, without sounding like he is comforting him.

The elevator bumps to a stop on the ground floor, and the doors finally, mercifully, open. 

"You know, my wife and I always end up making too much food for Christmas," Jake says, with an admirable degree of ease in his voice. "And we don't have any extended family in the area... We really wouldn't mind an additional guest."

Through the tall, narrow windows on either side of the main door, Bellamy can see that it is snowing, a steady downfall of white flakes against the imperfect black of the night, slanting through the streetlights and dusting across the sidewalk and the road. He fumbles with the zipper on his jacket. He has no idea what to say.

"I... don't want to impose," he manages, finally.

Jake smiles at him, sympathetic this time, almost paternal. It's not a sort of smile Bellamy sees often. He wants sorely to reel back his words, to say _yes, take me home to your friendly wife and your well-lit dining room and your home-cooked meals_ , feels a surge of regret at his own reticence—even though he already knows the invitation will be extended again. He’s holding in a shallow breath. He knows the offer is genuine, a light extended in the gloom.

"You aren't imposing," Jake insists. "I'm asking. You won't be inconveniencing us, and we'd love to have you."

Bellamy hesitates again, kicking himself for the long breath of silence, feeling almost dizzy in the otherworld of the abandoned office at night, lost in the nearly complete quiet, the reluctant object of Jake's patient, forgiving stare.

"All right," he says, at last. Even to his own ears, he sounds relieved. "Thank you. If you're sure you don't mind—"

"I don't mind," Jake insists. "I'll send you an email with the address."

*

Bellamy arrives at the Griffins’ house in the early afternoon of Christmas day. The neighborhood, an upscale street of narrow town houses, does not fit his expectations at all. He was picturing a house to match the general aesthetic of Alpha Group, an organization whose budget can best be described as shoestring. But he's double-checked the address twice and this is it. Number fourteen. A full green wreath with a red ribbon hangs on the front door. Cheery candles glow, inviting and warm, in the windows. 

He finds himself thinking again about the painting outside Jake's office. It makes a bit more sense now: clearly, this is a man who enjoys the finer things.

The snow that started on Friday has continued, off and on, ever since, and is still coming down now. It settles on Bellamy's hair and the shoulders of his winter coat as he stands outside, waiting for someone to answer the door. He waits a long while, and a low flutter of nervousness starts to form in his belly. He's just about to ring the doorbell again when he hears a clatter of heavy footsteps against a wooden floor, and an oddly familiar voice calling, "Sorry! Coming!"

Then the door does open, and he's standing face to face with Clarke.

The first thought to flash across his mind is _maybe I got the address wrong after all_ .

She's wearing a red velvet dress this time, long-sleeved, with a low, rounded neckline, the same thick-soled boots from the party, black tights that sparkle when she shifts her weight from foot to foot. Her hair, now with a thick red streak dyed on the right side, is loose over her shoulders. Still no jewelry, except for the man's watch on her wrist. She is so absolutely stunning that at first, Bellamy can only stare. It takes him an embarrassingly long moment to remember to close his mouth.

And both of them an even more embarrassingly long time to speak.

"What are you doing here?" Bellamy asks, finally, in a voice so sharp and accusatory that Clarke takes a stunned half-step back.

"I'm spending Christmas with my family," she answers. Her voice is stiff and defensive, her eyes narrow. "The better question is what are _you_ doing here?"

 _Regretting my life choices_ seems like a poor answer, and not one that he could form anyway, given the solid lump, like coal, in his throat. He's holding a bottle of wine in his gloved hands. Snow is wafting in around him, scattering and quickly melting across the warm foyer floor.

"Mr. Griffin invited me," he says, instead. He sounds just as hard and as belligerent as she does, and he can't speak for her, but on his part the tone is pure, misplaced fear. He's worked it out, by now. There is no mistake. This is the right address.

This is Clarke Griffin, Jake Griffin's daughter, who he's talking to. Who he's been sleeping with for the past week and a half. Who he's been, maybe, starting to fall for.

Clarke seems to be muddling through roughly an equivalent set of realizations—that she is about to spend Christmas with her parents and Bellamy, her new fuck buddy of sorts, all together around one cozy holiday table—because her eyes are growing round again, and her body is frozen, all but completely still.

She snaps herself out of it roughly. "Don't just stand there," she orders. "You're letting in all the snow. Come in."

Her tone annoys him, but he obeys anyway; he doesn't exactly _want_ to be standing out in the cold. He stomps his feet clear on the mat and shakes the worst of the melting snow out of his curls, as Clarke forces the front door shut behind him. "This is for you," he says, without any grace at all, shoving the wine in her direction. "When were you going to tell me that your father is my _boss_ ?"

"Excuse me?" She almost loses her grip on the wine, saves it at the last moment, then drops her voice down to a hiss. "What does it matter who my father is? You knew he was someone you worked with."

"This is different. _With_ and _for_ are different."

"Really? Why?" She's staring him down now, as if she were a head taller than him, instead of shorter. Bellamy meets her gaze without blinking. "You said it yourself," she continues, "I'm an adult, not a little girl. You don't have to ask my _daddy_ for _permission_ ."

"Oh, please." He rolls his eyes, and only with great effort keeps the volume of his own voice down. The last thing he needs is to meet Mrs. Griffin in the middle of an argument with her daughter, or to have Jake find him exchanging harsh words with his only child in the middle of his brightly-lit entranceway. Fine repayment for a friendly invitation that would be. "Don't do that. Don't put words in my mouth. I never said that. I'm just saying that this is—"

"Awkward?" She points the wine bottle at him. "Only because _you're_ making it awkward, coming into my house throwing around accusations."

" _You're_ the one with the accusations—"

"Oh, then what was that 'your father is WHO?' stuff all about, huh?" 

Bellamy has to take a deep breath to keep at least some semblance of control. It flares out through his nostrils. Clarke's cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright; she looks fucking beautiful, and so goddamn infuriating too. He wants to throw this argument away just like their first one. He wants to tell her that they're both absolute idiots, because he's pretty sure that's what she's thinking too. She's staring up at him, not backing down, waiting for his riposte but—she's not angry. Maybe something else, maybe annoyed, or embarrassed, or nervous even, but not angry.

Neither is he. Terrified would describe his feelings better. He can smell the deep, comforting scents of holiday food wafting down the hall from the kitchen, and he knows that at any moment, Jake Griffin or his wife will come to see what has held their guest up so long. And then the interminable dinner will begin. And the whole time he'll want to look at her, but he won't know how. He'll be sure of Jake's wary gaze on him, a figment of his paranoid imagination or not, he won't be able to decide, and already, he can feel his whole body tensing with an almost animal response: play dead. Avoid, avoid, avoid.

Clarke is still staring. He lets his shoulders deflate.

"You should have told me," he says, low, and unzips his jacket like he's ripping an enemy apart with his bare hands. 

*

Mrs. Griffin—Dr. Griffin, as he learns soon enough—greets him with a warm smile he does not feel like he deserves, telling him how glad she is to meet him as she sets a comically large ham down in the center of the table. He asks if there's anything he can do to help. She reminds him that he's their guest, and everything is ready anyway, but he insists on helping to set out the glasses and the silverware, at least.

The meal is not as uncomfortable as he'd thought it might be, except that Clarke is sitting directly across from him, and it's a bit too easy to get lost in staring at her. The way she’ll sometimes tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her profile, when she turns to her father and asks him to pass the rolls. The delicate movements of her hands as she butters the bread.

But for the most part, he keeps his baser instincts under control, and tamps down on his inappropriate memories. Little is asked of him. The Griffins keep up a lively conversation about their respective jobs, friends, and acquaintances, and Bellamy contents himself with eating the most delicious holiday meal he has had in, quite possibly, his entire life.

"Jake tells me that your sister is spending the holidays in Europe," Dr. Griffin says, turning toward him during a slight conversational lull, and he has to pull himself abruptly back to the present. "Does she work there or is she just traveling for fun?"

"Ah—fun, I guess," Bellamy answers, but that's only an awkward partial answer, and he frowns over the words. "She's not just there for the holidays, though. She's actually been there the better part of a year... trying to find herself, I think."

"And you didn't consider joining her? I mean, I know it can be difficult—"

"Financially?"

Dr. Griffin hesitates, and Bellamy feels a heat rise in his cheeks. He flicks his gaze down to his fork, then up and straight ahead, focusing on the window just behind Clarke's shoulder. An early dusk is already starting to fall. Probably, he's thinking, that's not what she meant at all. Probably, living in a house like this, she's spent a few Christmases abroad herself.

"In general," she answers, haltingly, and Bellamy shrugs.

"I didn't, but it was more because... we used to be really close, growing up." He pauses, weighing the rest of the story on his tongue. He can feel Clarke watching him. Just like she's never told him about her family, her father, any of this, he's never told her much about his own past. To her, this is all new. "Because it was just us and our mom. Octavia is six years younger, and she was like my little shadow, my whole life." He smiles a little, at the memory. "But then I went to college, and she was only about twelve at the time. And we've..." He sighs. "Yeah, we've grown apart."

"It's hard," Clarke says. Her voice is unexpectedly soft, and so is her gaze. "You want to be able to pretend physical distance doesn't matter. But it does."

"We missed Clarke terribly when she was out in California," Dr. Griffin agrees. She seems more at ease now, the slight held breath of tension in the room now deflating, her fingers no longer tensed around her fork. "But we also understood it was something she needed to do."

"I gave her that watch right before she left for college," Jake adds, gesturing to Clarke's wrist. "It's an old family thing, absolutely ancient, doesn't even tell time anymore. Either she hasn't taken it off since, or she just remembers to wear it when she visits to soothe my ego. 'Don't worry Dad, it's a good gift.'" He smiles, self-deprecating, but Clarke's own expression is gentle. The careful way she touches the watch face is genuine.

"I never take it off," she says. "That's the truth."

It is. Bellamy knows because he's seen her, stretched out on her back with her arms above her head, lazy and calm, and he remembers climbing over her and running his hands slowly up her arms, running his fingers over the watch and over the small bones of her wrist, then linking his fingers through hers, and his lips finding hers—

"Bellamy?"

He startles, turns to Dr. Griffin just in time to see her gesturing toward the corn. "Can you—?"

"Oh. Yes. Sorry." He passes the bowl to her carefully and does his very best not to look over at Clarke. Is she watching him? Did she notice his mind wandering?

Worse, did Dr. Griffin notice? Did Jake? Was it obvious?

He feels like every secret thought he's ever had is painted across his face.

"I think we made too much again," Dr. Griffin sighs, as she looks around at the still-uneaten food left on her table. "This happens every year, Bellamy. None of us cooks all that often and we don't know how to judge the sizes of our own stomachs."

"That's what leftovers are for," Jake reminds her easily, but Dr. Griffin doesn't look entirely convinced.

"This is why I was trying to convince Clarke to invite her friend," she adds. "That, and that I'm curious to meet him."

"My friend?" Clarke asks, at the same moment as Bellamy, despite himself, echoes, "Her friend?" 

"Yes. This mysterious person you've mentioned in every conversation we've had this past week.” She says this lightly, as if it were quite an ordinary, everyday thing to say, but Bellamy can read between the lines. She's astute. She's fishing for information, or at least, trying to—unaware, of course, that she has two potential targets sitting at the table with her. He feels himself unaccountably large, a malformed giant in the room, the proverbial elephant, but also perfectly camouflaged, sneaky and invisible. He's the wild game, hiding in plain sight.

Clarke blushes, fidgets with her fork, then realizes abruptly what she's doing and shoves her hands safely beneath the table again. "I told you," she answers, looking squarely at her mother, and not at Bellamy at all, "you're making too big a deal out of this. We're not—he's not someone I could invite to a family holiday dinner. We _just_ _met_."

"You're right, you're right," Dr. Griffin relents, sighing a little as she refolds her napkin on her lap. "I don't mean to be nosy. I'm only curious. Just met or not, I can’t remember the last time you’ve talked about someone like this.”

"Like what?" Bellamy asks. The question comes out before he can stop himself. He bites hard at the inside of his mouth. "I mean—if you don't mind me asking."

Clarke is giving him a death stare. He pretends he doesn't notice.

Dr. Griffin considers for a moment, then says, "Like a schoolgirl with a crush, I suppose."

Clarke turns a deeper red, and Jake says, "Come on, Abby. Now you're just teasing her."

"I am, and I'm sorry. Really, though, Clarke: it's nice. You've been working so hard now for years. It's been a long time since I've seen you as happy as I have just this past week."

"That's just joy at finishing a semester of med school," Clarke mumbles, but Bellamy is smiling softly down at his plate. He doesn't know if her parents believe her, but he doesn't. Not one bit.

*

After dinner, both of the Griffins are called away by their respective phones, and while Clarke disappears into the kitchen to make coffee, Bellamy is left alone in what he supposes must be called the sitting room. Not sure what to do, he wanders the perimeter, perusing the bookshelves and the art on the walls.

One painting looks startlingly familiar, and he finds himself standing in front of it, taking it in as if it were a masterpiece in a museum. He's never seen it before, but he recognizes the artist. The picture, a small portrait of Jake Griffin in three-quarter profile, is clearly done by the same hand as the landscape outside his office. This one, however, is signed. Bellamy squints at the corner and reads the scrawled signature left there in thick black ink: _C. Griffin_ .

 _The artist isn't famous so it's worthless_ , he repeats to himself, smiling just out of the corner of his mouth. He has to say he really doesn’t agree.

He's so distracted by his discovery that he doesn't notice the footsteps padding across the thick, plush, carpet, and he jumps at the sound of a tray being set down on the coffee table behind him.

"Did I startle you?" Clarke asks.

"A little."

The last time they were alone together, they were each fighting the instinct to shout, but now in the soft hush of the room, with its deep red curtains drawn against the darkness and the cold outside, its bright overhead light, its comforting arrays of neatly shelved books, they can only watch each other, a little wary but gentle, uncertain of the space that yawns between them. 

Clarke winds her way around the table, between the sofas, and comes to stand at his side. She seems, still, a little unsure, her hands stiff and awkward at her sides.

"I see my parents aren't back yet," she notes. "I'm sorry about them. Not just one but _both_ of them working on Christmas, it's—"

"It's okay." He shrugs. "I'm not offended."

"Well, I apologize anyway. And—" She takes in a deep breath, lets it out nice and slow; he can see on her face how she's carefully composing her next words. "And I'm sorry about my behavior, too. I shouldn't have said those things to you when you first got here. I was too defensive, and I accused you of saying things you didn't say and having thoughts you didn't have. I was wrong."

He nods, stubs his toe briefly against the carpet, and says, "I'm sorry, too. You were just reacting to me. I came in the door and immediately got combative. I was surprised to see you and completely caught off guard by the situation, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have been rude."

The words feel good to say, like a weight lifting off him, but now that the apologies are done, he's not sure what's left to them. He can't read the expression on Clarke's face. He pictures himself pushing her hair out of her face, running his thumb across her jaw, or tracing her lips. He pictures himself being soft with her, gestures to match the expression she is leveling at him. 

"Look at us," she says, smiling a little. "Being so mature."

"Oh, yeah," he agrees. "Regular mature adults over here. Look, I—I should say. It's not just that I was surprised. It really is... awkward for me, knowing that my boss is your father."

"Okay." She draws out the word, as if in that one syllable, she is racing through a million more in her head. "I guess... I get that. But I kind of thought you'd already figured it out. And that either way, it wouldn't matter. Of course, I also wasn't expecting to see you on my doorstep on Christmas... My dad didn't mention he'd invited _anyone_ , let alone you."

"Yeah, I figured your surprise was genuine."

Unsure again of where to put their hands, how to balance their weight on their feet, they wander over to the couch, sit down side by side in front of the coffee tray. Clarke stirs sugar into her mug absently.

"It's not awkward," Bellamy says, "because I think of you as his property or something weird like that—"

"No, I know, I was just being—"

"And maybe it wouldn't matter at all, if it were just a one-time thing, or even a one- _week_ thing."

He trails off, sure the rest of the words will come, but they don't. He wraps his hands tentatively around his coffee mug, though it's almost too hot to the touch. Clarke takes a careful sip of hers.

"But it's not," she says, and it's no question, but he nods in answer anyway.

"Not for me."

"Not for me either. I mean—" She smiles. "You heard my mom. Embarrassing me as if I were in middle school or something."

"Moms have that uncanny ability," he agrees, though he's thinking, not of his own absent mother, but about how many times he teased Octavia himself when she was in school.

Clarke doesn't say anything else for a long moment. Eventually, her smile fades and she is simply looking at him, quiet and somber again. She sets down her mug and lets one hand rest lightly on his knee. "What did you say before?" she asks. "The beginning of anything is the hardest?"

He nods. "Something like that. Are you telling me I was wrong or I was right?"

Is this their beginning? he wonders. Their middle? Their end?

It does not feel like the end.

"I guess that depends." She shifts a little closer, her leg bumping against his leg. 

"The thing is," Bellamy says, and the words sound as if they were echoing from a far distance, as if another, more responsible Bellamy were somehow speaking through him, in his own calm, familiar voice. "The thing is that if we were together, and your father didn't know, I'd feel like I was lying to him every day. And if he did know, I'd always wonder if he was playing favorites at work with me because of who I am, because I'm dating his daughter. And if we broke up or had a fight, I'd probably worry about my job."

Really all he wants to do is wrap his arms around her. Her hand is on his knee, she is so close.

"I understand that," she answers. "I understand if you want to just part ways."

"I really don't, though." He shakes his head, smiling despite himself, lost in what is probably his terrible judgment, hardly caring. "I want to see where this goes."

"So do I."

He rests his hand on top of hers and squeezes it tight.

"If it helps at all," Clarke says, "my father would never fire you just because our relationship didn't work out. I doubt he'd play favorites, either. I doubt he'd be anything but welcoming. I think he likes you a lot."

“I like your family a lot,” Bellamy admits.

“Even my mom, the least subtle spy in the world?”

“Even her.”

Somehow Clarke’s hands have found his hands, her fingers tangled up with his fingers, resting lightly together on his knees.

“So, what—we’re going to tell them the truth—”

“Or some version of the truth.”

“And then… continue seeing each other?”

Clarke’s expression turns thoughtful, her head tilted and her lips thin. “I think that’s our best course of action, yes.”

“Okay. But you know we probably shouldn’t be sitting like this when they come in.” He pulls away from her reluctantly, settling back against the sofa cushions, his arm spread out to rest along the top of the couch. “It’s too obvious.”

“Disagree.” Clarke glances toward the doorway, furtive, then picks up their respective coffees and hands him his. She settles in easily, right in the space he left for her. “I think this is exactly how they should find us.” She looks up at him, and he meets her eye and smiles. His arm wraps around her shoulders to pull her a little closer still. “It’s exactly,” she adds, “where I want to be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Thank you for reading!


End file.
